


Shots

by darkavenger



Category: Call of Duty
Genre: Alcohol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before Utopia, shortly after Mitchell joins Atlas. </p><p>Mitchell goes for a drink. Gideon joins him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shots

“Here, have a drink on me, rookie.” A glass of whiskey appears  in front of Mitchell, who looks up, surprised. He hadn’t expected to run into anyone from work here, but here Gideon is, dressed in civvies and looking as relaxed as if he always comes to this bar.

“Thanks,” he says slowly, giving a nod of acceptance as he takes the drink.

Gideon settles on the barstool next to him, hunkering forward on his elbows over the bar, a glass of his own beside him.

For a moment they drink together in silence. Glancing sidelong at his captain, Mitchell has to ask, “So what made you decide to join me for a drink?”

Gideon fakes surprise. “What? Can’t one soldier have a drink with another?”

Mitchell shrugs, and tips the last of his drink back. It burns as it hits the back of his throat but goes down smooth. Better than what he’d been drinking. “Sure,” he says, placing the empty glass on the bar, “but since when do we hang out off duty?” The question comes out blunter than he intended.

Gideon’s eyebrows raise. “Sorry mate,” he says amicably, “saw you drinking alone. Thought you might want some company. Clearly I was wrong,” he makes as if to stand.

“Wait a minute,” Mitchell flushes slightly, the alcohol making his cheeks heat up, “I wasn’t telling you to leave, I was just… surprised.”

“Pleasantly, I hope,” Gideon says, flashing him a grin as he sits back down.

Mitchell huffs out a small laugh, “Sure.”

They fall back into silence, companionable this time. Mitchell draws a finger through the condensation that’s pooled on the bar, drawing it over the tacky varnish of the surface.

“So, what’s wrong?”

Gideon’s voice breaks into his thoughts. Mitchell looks up, “Why would you think something’s wrong?”

Gideon gives him a look. “You’re in a bar. By yourself. You’re either here to forget something, or… for something else.” He smirks, looking at Mitchell appraisingly, “So which one is it?”

For some reason Mitchell’s mouth goes dry at the question, and he feels the dull burn as his cheeks heat up again. Damn alcohol, he always gets red in the face when he drinks. Will used to laugh at him about it. That manages to sober him up and make him want another drink, all at once. “The first one,” he says hoarsely, and there must be something in his voice because Gideon’s expression turns into something more sympathetic and less… whatever that was.

“Need another drink?”

Mitchell nods, and watches gratefully as Gideon leans across the bar to get the barman’s attention. A moment later and another drink slides across the bar in front of him. He drains it, tipping it back with a neat flick of the wrist. “Thanks. I’ll get the next round.” He reaches for his wallet, only to have Gideon catch him round the wrist.

“Woah, steady on there mate,” Gideon says, laughingly, but there’s an edge of concern behind the laughter, “I haven’t touched my drink yet.” He gives Mitchell another look, blue eyes worry-dark, “You alright?”

His tone is uncharacteristically gentle, and coupled with the the hand still round Mitchell’s wrist, it all feels a little too intimate.

“Fine,” Mitchell says, pulling free and turning back to the bar, away from Gideon.

“You know, if you wanted a drink, there’s alcohol back at base. But you came here, to a bar off site,” Gideon hesitates, then asks, “You’re not having second thoughts about working for Atlas are you?”

“What?” Mitchell’s surprised enough to turn back to Gideon, blinking in confusion, “No, never.” After all the things Atlas had done for him, all the things Will’s father had done for him, even if he hadn’t liked his work, Mitchell didn’t think he’d feel okay about leaving. “I like working for Atlas. I like working with you -” Gideon grins, and opens his mouth to probably say something obnoxious - “and Joker and Ilona,” Mitchell adds hurriedly, before Gideon can get the wrong idea.

“So?” Gideon asks, leaning forward and giving Mitchell a serious look, “What’s the matter?”

Mitchell looks down. “It just feels strange. Doing this job, going to all these places, doing all these crazy things, without Will.” He shrugs, faking nonchalance and reaches for the glass, wishing he hadn’t drank it so he’d have something to do.

“Ah,” Gideon says, understanding. He claps a hand to Mitchell’s shoulder, and lets it rest there for a second, before pulling away. “Fancy a game of pool?”

The change is sudden and not at all subtle, but that’s Gideon for you, and Mitchell isn’t complaining. “Sure,” he says, “loser buys the next round?”

Gideon grins, showing his teeth. “Sounds good to me.”

 

Twenty minutes later and Mitchell finds himself peeling a twenty out of his wallet. “Somehow I feel like I just got played,” he comments, shaking his head.

Gideon laughs, the sound warm and amused. “If you want, we can change it to winner buys the drinks.”

“Oh no,” Mitchell disagrees, folding his arms and leaning back against the bar as he waits for their drinks arrive. “I’m prepared now. Next game, you’ll be the one buying the drinks.”

“Yeah?” Gideon says, raising an eyebrow as he reaches around Mitchell to grab his drink. “Good. I like a challenge.”

Then he grins up at Mitchell, and turns away, walking back to the pool table. Mitchell takes a moment to collect himself, then grabs his drink and follows.

 

The next game goes about as well as the first. Mitchell blames it on Gideon. He’s distracting. Mitchell finds his gaze lingering as Gideon leans over the pool table, eyes intent as he lines up a shot. And there’s the small, casual touches. Fingers brushing as Gideon passes him the chalk. A light hand on the small of his back as Gideon passes.

“Damn,” Mitchell curses, as he screws up another shot completely, potting the white and nearly tearing the felt.

Gideon laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Nice one, rookie. Here’s hoping your aim is better in the field.”

“I don’t normally drink on missions,” Mitchell grumbles. He sighs, running a hand over his hair. “I’ll just go buy another round.”

Gideon shrugs, putting away his cue. “Don’t worry about getting me one.”

Mitchell tilts his head, “Why? Can’t keep up?” he lets a teasing note slide into his tone, “I thought you liked a challenge.”

Gideon narrows his eyes at him. “This is a bad idea,” he warns.

Mitchell grins, then shrugs, pretending indifference. “Well, if you don’t think you can keep up…” He waits a pause.

“Fine,” Gideon growls, moving past Mitchell to the bar. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

Several rounds of shots later, and Mitchell is beginning to regret it. He’s not a heavy drinker, normally, and he’d had a headstart on Gideon anyway. He’s definitely drunk. Blearily, he looks at the line of shot glasses in front of him. “s’ it my round?” he asks, blinking as he tries to remember.

Gideon groans. “I don’t care. I’m not drinking anymore.”

Mitchell blinks again, then beams, delighted. “So I win?”

“Yeah, sure,” Gideon says, shaking his head, “I mean, some people might call it quitting while they're ahead, but -”

“- I won,” Mitchell interrupts, grinning stupidly.

“Yeah, you won,” Gideon says, rolling his eyes. “Probably a case of alcohol poisoning, you daft sod.”

Mitchell laughs, slow and happy.

Gideon shakes his head at him. “I think I liked you better when you barely talked.” His expression softens when he looks and Mitchell, and he sighs, resigned. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

“Good idea,” Mitchell agrees, sliding off his barstool. His feet hit the ground and he stumbles.

“Whoa, steady there mate,” Gideon’s voice says, sounding alarmed, and Mitchell feels Gideon’s arm slip around him.

“Thanks,” Mitchell says, letting himself lean into Gideon for a second as he gets his balance. Gideon chuckles, and Mitchell feels the vibrations rumble through his chest. “m’okay,” he insists.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gideon says indulgently, helping him to the door, “whatever you say mate.”

 

They leave the bar and the cold night air hits Mitchell like a slap to the face. It’s bracing, and he’s grateful, because even through the drunken haze he’s in, he’s beginning to feel twinges of embarrassment about the fact he’s gotten completely trashed in front of his captain.

 _I’m going to feel this in the morning,_ he thinks regretfully, straightening up. Gideon lets his arm drop, and they pull away. They walk together, silence falling between them once more. It’s not a long walk back to base, and before long they’re flashing their id to the security at the gates.

Mitchell doesn’t protest when Gideon walks him back to his room, even though it’s not necessary. Even drunk, he could make his way back there.

“Alright then,” Gideon says, stopping in front of Mitchell’s door. “This is it. Try not to vomit in your sleep or anything.”

Mitchell smiles, “I’ll try.”

Gideon hesitates, as if about to say something, then shrugs and makes to leave.

“Wait,” Mitchell finds himself saying, reaching out, his fingers brushing the back of Gideon’s jacket. Gideon turns, a question in his eyes.

Clearing his throat, Mitchell says, avoiding Gideon’s eyes, “Thanks. For not letting me drink alone.”

He expects Gideon to laugh it off, make a joke. Instead he just says, “You’re welcome.”

There’s another pause, and then Mitchell reaches forward again, this time to tangle his fingers in the soft cotton of Gideon’s tshirt and tug him forward. Gideon comes willingly, hands landing on Mitchell’s waist to steady him as he almost overbalances, and Gideon tilts his head upwards to meet the kiss. It’s warm, and Gideon is warm too, his body against Mitchell’s, pressing him up against the door, his hands slipping inside Mitchell’s tshirt, warm and calloused against cold skin.

“Fuck,” Gideon says, pulling away a little and breathing heavily, “not bad. Not bad at all.”

Mitchell smiles a little, relieved that Gideon doesn’t seem at all freaked out at the turn the evening has taken, but understanding as Gideon takes a step back, putting a little distance between them.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gideon tells him, “when you’re sober.”

Mitchell smiles. “Alright,” he says, quietly content, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”


End file.
